Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

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I started to discuss this with Tiberius, pacing so silently beside me. “The big problem is who now benefits from having Gavius dead-”

“No, stop!” he exclaimed. I was half prepared for it. I had noticed he was oddly introspective. His pace quickened, as if he had decided on a new destination. His expression became more open with me.

“What’s up, Aedile?”

“I have to go back to the mews. I promised I would return to talk to the doctor after he finished. Then I need to explain something to the parents…”

“The doctor will be still there? What are you keeping from me? You examined the body-and you took your time, don’t think I never noticed. Did you see something? A clue?”

“You could say that.” Tiberius took my hand as we walked, then he explained. “Gavius was punched in the neck with a blade. Blood would have flowed straight away. He may have stumbled, he probably fell down. At that point I imagine the dogs became very excited. The attacker might have felt it imperative to get away from the dogs before they went for him. Because of the blood, it would have looked as if Gavius was already dead.”

“But…?” I was already guessing where this would lead.

“The wound was not arterial; that would have been quickly fatal. The weapon must have missed the crucial spot … This is why I sent so urgently for the doctor. I didn’t want false hopes for the parents-that would be cruel. But the doctor is going to work on him-”

“You mean-”

“Perhaps he can be revived, brought back, saved. He was still warm. I thought I felt a pulse. When I first looked at him, Gavius was still alive.”

I gathered my skirts so I could walk as fast as Tiberius; we hurried back to Mucky Mule Mews. Passing through the gawpers, we applied solemn expressions as if we had a further formality to carry out and reentered Gavius’ home. There, the doctor told us the “dead man” was still breathing even now. The wound had been dressed. With attention, the medico thought Gavius might be saved, though it was not certain. We swore him to secrecy, then paid him off.

The plan Tiberius had was to quickly tell the parents, but nobody else. For one thing, he did not want a killer returning to finish the job. He also felt it might be useful to let any assailant believe the attack had succeeded.

Tiberius discovered there was a narrow walkway behind the buildings here. He went by himself while I sat with the patient. I dreaded to think what an alley behind Mucky Mule Mews was like but it allowed Tiberius to pick his way along, unseen, in order to fetch Gavius’ mother and father. With instructions from the doctor, they would secretly tend their boy. They were a devoted family and he was physically strong. If he recovered enough to talk, they would send us a message.

We installed the parents as nurses, then we left; this time we did go back to the Vicus Longus.

It was still morning, though after such emotional upheaval it felt as if hours had passed. By mutual agreement, we went straight to the Brown Toad. One of the boy-girls was outside with a hand mirror, applying more Egyptian-mummy eyeliner. He-she called out lewd overtures to me, then when that failed tried Tiberius-even more of a mistake.

“Shut up and show me your registration, please.”

“What?”

“When you first took up your degrading profession, you should have put yourself on the prostitutes’ roll. I am a plebeian aedile, you just propositioned me. I never screw illegals. I want to inspect your certificate.”

The pretty thing jumped up and fled with a string of curses.

I gazed at my bridegroom. “If he had been legal, would screwing be considered?”

“Just talk.”

I left the officious Manlius Faustus on the bench outside, ready to harass members of the public; now he had started being doctrinaire, he needed to work it out of his system. He was in a starchy mood because of what happened to Gavius.

The lethargic waitress drooped out from the bar, to offer him a free drink. She must have overheard who he was. Tiberius asked for a jug of water. She was too limp even to look scandalized.

I passed indoors where, as I expected, Gran was rustling up today’s big cauldron of “staff” hot pot. “You’re too early! Give me a chance, girl.” Since I knew she was grandma to Gavius, Tiberius’ plan of secrecy was putting me in a tricky position. I put off telling her.

I squashed myself neatly on a stool, keeping out of her way. I had been in a grandmother’s kitchen while she knocked up dishes; I had been trained by many backhanded flips not to be a nuisance as a busy woman worked.

“Himself is outside,” I warned her.

“The girl will look after him.”

“Not his type.”

“Oh I remember. You think you are! Remember, if you can get through the wedding, you can get through life … When’s the big day now?”

“Two days’ time.” I managed to say it without shuddering.

“Better get a move on then,” she commented frankly. She was a true grandmother. “If you really intend solving whose those old bones are.”

“Don’t nag, Gran. I’m not messing about. I will solve it. And I’ll discover who put them there. Listen, I only meant let’s pretend that gorgeous tripe you’re braising is some variety of pulse, shall we?”

The gran gave me a shirty look. She knew the rules; she knew how to get around them, too, but today she wasn’t going to give in quietly. “Now let me see. Pulses-what could that be? Beans? Kidney or broad, what’s your fancy? Black, white, green, red, speckled or stripey as a duck’s arse? I could do you peas, chickpeas, lentils, millet, barley, oats, vetch or lupins? No, I’m not inflicting lupins on anyone. That’s donkey food. Seeds? Nuts? Walnuts, pine kernels, almonds…?”

“Cobnuts. Enough!” I cried. “Bloody hell, Gran. That’s a market wholesaler’s catalog.”

She sniffed. There must be special lessons in being offended yet triumphant, lessons you can have when you are seventy-five and stroppy with it.

“What is it really?”

“What is what?”

I knew that game. “You know. The tripe?”

“Liver.”

“Yum.”

“Everyone likes a bit of comfort food. I never use a recipe, I just put onions and a bit of pearl barley into everything. Sometimes I do liver, sometimes kidney. I like to put a pastry lid on kidneys. I don’t enjoy cooking all the kinds of offal. Udders, stomachs-you can keep those. I feel funny if I have to handle brains.” After this speech, she continued rapidly chopping shallots. Her knife was an old, heavy, wide, wooden-handled one. Luckily I knew Gavius was hurt with a slim blade or I would have wondered whether the attack on him was a family affair.

“I’m drooling. I can wait a bit. Liver will just need a fast flash in the pan … I can’t keep calling you Gran. What’s your real name?”

“Everyone calls me Gran. What makes you so special, young woman?” I wanted to keep talking like this, to be nostalgic. What with the wedding, I must be missing my own grandmothers. She may have sensed my sadness, for she softened, as they do. “It’s Prisca.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the honor.”

I gazed at her. She paused in her vigorous chopping. We understood each other. She realized I had something to tell her.

“Prisca, I am very sorry, I have something bad to say.”

She laid down the knife gently, wiping her hands on her skirts. These were small, formal preparations so she was decently ready. “Who died?” At her age, there was only one sorry message that solemn people brought to you.

Awkwardly deferring the moment, I asked slowly, “Did you see Gavius here last night?”

“Who’s gone for our Gavius? Is it him then?” She was upset, though perhaps not entirely surprised, I thought. “What happened?”